"Go 'way from there, will ye? Ah, ye little spalpeen, it's good for ye that yer fahder don't see ye perched up dhere. Go 'way from dhat, or I'll be tellin' yer uncle."
"Don't care for nashty old uncle," piped Toddie's voice.
I laid down my book with a sigh, and went into the garden. Mike saw me and shouted:
"Mister Burthon, will you look dhere? Did ye's ever see the loike av dhat bye?"
Looking up at the play-room window, a long, narrow sort of loop-hole in a Gothic gable, I beheld my youngest nephew standing upright on the sill.
"Toddie, go in—quick!" I shouted, hurrying under the window to catch him in case he fell outward.
"I tan't!" squealed Toddie.
"Mike, run upstairs and snatch him in! Toddie, go in, I tell you!"
"Tell you I tan't doe in," repeated Toddie. "Ze bid bots ish ze whay-al, an' I'ze Djonah, an' ze whay-al's froed me up, an' I'ze dot to 'tay up here else ze whay-al 'ill fwallow me aden."
"I won't let him swallow you. Get in now—hurry," said I.